


I Just Want to Stay

by Fuzzball457



Series: Any Day Now [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape Recovery, Recovery, References to Suicide, References to Torture, eventual poly - Freeform, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:04:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzball457/pseuds/Fuzzball457
Summary: Alex tries to get John and Lafayette on the same page and fails horribly. Meanwhile John is an angsty mess trying to figure out what a life is worth.





	I Just Want to Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So I know it's been a while BUT after looking at some old reviews I was inspired to continue working on this series! 
> 
> Part of this chapter is from John's POV and includes brief/vague references to physical assault and rape as well as brief suicidal ideation - read with caution and take care of your selves! Also John is all over the place in this, but I tried to make it evident that there was a lot of emotional manipulation/abuse as well as physical. Be patient with our boy. This one is saaaad. Like all the way through. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, so I apologize for any mistakes. I wrote different sections of this several weeks apart so I know there's certain repetition in phraseology, but I've been sick and I really want to get this up, so there you have it!
> 
> P.S. If anyone knows anything about self-publishing, can you come hit me up on Tumblr at Rose-of-tori? I'm sTrUgGliNg with life.

When Alex first awakens, he’s focused on keeping his breathing slow and measured. He lets each exhale hang in the air as long as possible as though he could, perhaps, enshrine this moment forever if he only moves slow enough. He doesn’t want to look, to check, because if he never checks, then there is no chance that John is not truly besides him. Instead, he stares up at the ceiling, grey in the early morning light, and matches his breath to each of John’s, even with the cadence of sleep. Surely if Alex can prove to the universe that John is noticed, that his presence is important, than it can’t take John away. He can’t disappear if Alex never stops paying attention.

And yet, he still isn’t prepared for the sudden tightness in his chest when movement next to him forces him to look over and take in John as he awakens. Relief and disbelief blossom as agonized twins in his chest and his fingers itch with the desire to grab ahold of John to ensure the universe doesn’t try to take him back. This is real, but what Alex needs now is for it to be permanent. He can’t stumble again, because if he does, Alex is quite sure he’ll lie there forever on asphalt, skin bloody and torn, until he simply disappears, a forgotten face in the parade of humanity.

So John has to stay. The universe and it’s infinite void of unspeakable darkness isn’t allowed to have John back. Alex is playing for keeps.

Even as John munches on a bowl of cereal and flicks through the latest Netflix additions, Alex can’t help but stare. It looks so normal, like it’s not making Alex’s heart beat double time.

He doesn’t know what to say. John took Alex’s words the day he disappeared into the abyss and he seems to have dropped them somewhere on the way home. Here, in this little apartment, they had carved from the daily drudge a little space to call their own. To see John here, without the stark reminder of hospital walls or an overly pleasant nurse…Alex can almost pretend nothing has happened.

Whether that is the right approach or not is a question for another day. 

“Morning,” he offers quietly even though it’s half past noon as he takes a seat next to John. Alex can’t recall the last time he slept in this late. He gets only a brief smile in return before John is back to scrolling through the lists. It used to bother Alex, how John would spend hours exploring the depths of Netflix, adding one thing after the next to his list, most of which he’d never watch.

“If you’re going to watch Netflix, then _watch_ something,” he’d snap, annoyed to find John still scrolling through possibilities thirty minutes into his “watching”. Like the exploration was more interesting than any movie could ever be.

Now he sits quietly, listening to the snippets of conversation that play as John hovers over options just long enough to start the preview trailer. He stares down at the unevenly buttered toast triangles in his hands. Wonder bread, because it was cheap and John would be suspicious if something with seeds and healthy benefits showed up in their kitchen. Lafayette would writhe in agony if he saw the artificial, sugary bread entering Alex’s mouth.

“Breakfast is _important_ , _mon cher_ ,” he’d scold, flitting around the kitchen with that silly purple apron around his waist. Rye bread, probably with two eggs and a glass of fresh orange juice. It’s something Alex has mocked him for in the past, but as he puts the flavorless, mushy bread in his mouth, he realizes just how acquainted he’d become with simple yet elegant meals. Meals with a little thought in them.

The snap of the laptop lid being closed startles him out of his bread-based contemplations. John is sitting stiffly, like he’s never felt anything as uncomfortable as a well-loved, squishy couch. Unbidden, images of past love making sessions, aggressive and needy all in one, come to mind. Right here on this very couch. The same couch Lafayette had kissed him sweetly on and assured Alex he wasn’t unlovable.

“John?” he asks timidly. His heart is beating painfully loud in his chest as he watches John’s unmoving silhouette. He’s still getting used to the sharp cut of his overly defined cheekbones and the way his freckles look dark and unhealthy against his pale pallor.

John’s eyes flick closed and he breathes deeply, almost exaggeratedly as his shoulders pull back and his chest puffs out before his whole frame caves back in with the exhale. When he does open his eyes, he keeps staring ahead, as if he’s never seen the tall, discolored lamp in the corner before in his life. Like he wasn’t the one who spotted it on the side of the road not long after they moved in together and demanded Alex go back for the pathetic looking thing.

“It’s not a puppy,” Alex had said as he struggled to pull a U-turn in the narrow street, “we don’t need to bring it home just because it looks sad.”

John told him in no uncertain terms that they most certainly did.

“I thought…” John begins. His voice is wobbly and garbled like he’s not quite sure how to shape the words. He gestures vaguely at the closed laptop. “It feels like…like a waste of time.” His Froot Loops – another abomination Lafayette would wilt at the sight of – jiggle in their milky sea as John’s hand shakes. There’s too much milk, Alex wants to say, but John has always sucked at the cereal to milk ratio. Some things will never change.

“It’s TV. It’s supposed to be a waste of time,” he reminds with a shrug. Even as he wishes he could play dumb, he feels the full picture unfold before him. After nearly a year of fearing every moment could be your last…intentionally wasting time with the fictitious problems of fictitious people felt like a betrayal to every moment endured. As if something was owed in return for your survival.

“I missed it, you know.” His eyes are impossibly large against his bony face as he glances at Alex. They skirt around as he talks in a way that tells Alex he’s fighting off tears. “The easy moments. When sleeping in late wasn’t going to get me beaten and being lazy was something I could take for granted. But all I can think is how mad he’d…how much trouble I’d be in for sitting around like this. Not…”

“Not…?” Alex prompts, even as he really, really doesn’t want to know. He can see John’s lips trembling with the force of the word, whatever it is. It’s acidic on his tongue, burning away until he can spit it out into the air between them. _Don’t hurt yourself for me_ , he wants to say. _I won’t judge._

“Not being…” His breath stutters. When did it become so fast? A little panic creeps into Alex’s mind as he watches John’s chest shake with the anxious little breaths. Hyperventilating, like you do when you’re crying and all you can do is sniff in, in, in, until you feel like you’re going to explode. “ _Not being good.”_ His eyes slam shut and tears streak out of the corners.

Like poison the words invade his mind. _You did so good today, John. What a good boy you are._ Is that what he said? Did he coo, touching John’s face fondly like he wouldn’t have gladly wrung his neck if he had failed to live up to expectations? Did John even get the right to a name? Or was it _good job, pet_?

Alex can’t help it. He knows his arms should reach out and draw John gently in. He should wipe those tears away and pepper his fluffy hair with kisses. Instead Alex sits where he is, leaning up against the opposite arm of the couch, and feels his own chest shake. His face crumples in that ugly way and his own tears come hot and fast. He’s so insufficient. Look at him pretending he can handle this, like all his books and stuffy intellect can help him now.

John says his name brokenly, an impartial syllable, but Alex can’t answer him. He drops forward, heavy head falling into his weak hands. The heels of his hands grind into his eyes, like he can wipe the sick images his traitorous mind summons from his consciousness.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes. _I know I’m inadequate_ , he wants to say. _I know I’m worthless at this._ Instead some sort of repentant confession tumbles out, a twisting ball of agony and guilt spilling from his mouth one thread at a time. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you. I’m sorry I didn’t look harder. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out. I’m sorry you were alone that day. I’m sorry I ever entered your life and fucked it up so badly.” He heaves in a much needed breath but there’s more sins to lay bare. “I’m sorry I loved Lafayette. I’m sorry I was happy. I’m sorry-”

“Stop! Stop!” He rears back at the scream to find John standing at his end of the couch. His hands are in his hair, tugging at it in that painful way he did at the hospital. His collar bone juts out like a branch across a river, pulling the skin around it taught as his elbows shake at the sides of his head. “Stop being so fucking sorry. ‘I’m sorry I was happy’? That’s – that’s sick, Alex. That’s fucking sick. How shitty do you think I am, that I’d be upset that you were _happy?_ ” Color is rushing to his face, but instead of the sickly look, it only drowns out his freckles and leaves him looking like someone else entirely.

“No, I…” he can feel himself fumbling. The words are falling from his mind faster than he can catch them and stuff them in his mouth. There’s nothing to say that will feel right, nothing that will make John see his love and understand his misery. He’s _so fucking sorry_ about everything. He’s sorry for existing right now, for upsetting John and for not knowing how to fix it. “I know you don’t… _I_ blame me and I don’t know…”

“Oh, I see,” John hisses, voice snapping off Alex’s thoughts like a whip. “You don’t know. The great Alexander doesn’t know what to do, what to say. How to fix this broken shell of man. How hard that must be, how humiliating to be so – so average. Like the rest of us.”

Spit pools in Alex’s mouth, drowning him. If he opens his mouth, it’ll spill out, an ugly stain across the carpet. He can’t speak, he can’t react. His mind stutters, unable to jump the hoop and finish. It’s not true. At least, he doesn’t think so. Alex knows he used to wave his intellect like a golden flag above his head. His intelligence is his greatest asset and his sharpest weapon. But John hasn’t been here. He hasn’t seen how Alex caved in, a shell unto himself. Nothing could be so humbling as to fail in protecting those he loves. No greater loss exists and Alex isn’t the brazen, pig-headed man John once knew. He doesn’t shove his lightning-fast mind and equally sharp tongue in anyone’s face anymore. He doesn’t draw attention to himself and he doesn’t take pleasure in outwitting those around him.

John doesn’t know Alex. Not anymore.

Alex’s tears dry on his flaming face, leaving itchy little marks all over. He wants to scrub his face clean, but he has to tell John, has to make him see _right now_.

“I’m upset because I don’t know how to help you,” he accuses, finger jutting out like a knife. “You really think I give a shit if I look smart right now? I feel like…like I’m dying. No, I feel like _you’re_ dying right in front of me while I’m standing here, helpless. Do you know how that feels? Do you? Because it feels like fucking shit, let me tell you.”

“I’m not asking you to save me, Alex! I never asked that!”

“Well someone has to,” he replies harshly, because this skeleton in front of him will blow over in a strong breeze. Someone’s got to catch him.

The disbelief that twitches across John’s face says, no. Wrong answer, Alex. Congratulations, you fucked up again.

John crowds up into his space. His eyes are wild as they rove across Alex’s face like his faults are writ there, in the tiny crevices of his pores. “Who got me out of there, Alex? Huh, was it you?” he demands, voice brutally loud at this distance. He’s close enough to kiss and once upon a time such a thought wouldn’t have been out of place. John has always looked wildly attractive when he’s passionate about something, even if it’s anger at Alex. The way his eyes become laser-focused sears into Alex’s heart. His lazy pronunciation slips away and his words become biting and razor sharp. “No. It was me, Alex! I was the one who crawled through hell every day just to live to see another day of hell. I was the one who risked everything every day. Do you know what that’s like, Alex? To know if you slip up for even a second, you’re going to be hit? Or fucked so hard you can’t sit right for days? To see others pay for your mistakes with their lives? Where were you then? _Where were you then?”_ Flecks of spittle land on Alex’s face as he stumbles backward. But, for the first time in a long time, John is the predator, matching each step with one of his own until Alex bumps into the wall. “That’s right, Alex. It was all me because I didn’t have anyone else. So don’t stand there and tell me how much I need you because when I needed you most, you were sitting in the dark somewhere wallowing in self-pity.”

Alex is too cold to even cry. His energy has drained to the floor, leaving him weak and quaking in its absence. He feels as if his knees may give out any second. John will only watch him fall, burdened with the darkest shadows of humanity. Alex presses his arms back, palms flat against the wall, to steady himself. It’s every one of his darkest fears, thrown into the unforgiving light by John’s cruel words. It’s a rushing realization, one that grabs him by the throat and chokes off any apology he could offer.

Alex is not the only one who blames himself for John’s ordeal. John blames him too and how could he not, condemned to unspeakable horrors, struggling to stay alive, all alone?

“Do you know how hard it is to hear that you sat around like some sad sack, trying to throw away your life while I kicked and screamed and _fought every second_ just to keep going? To hope someday to return to that very same life you were destroying?”

There’s no right answer, his panicking mind concludes. If he’s too sad, it’s a mockery of John’s struggles. If he’s too happy, it’s like he didn’t care. There’s no out. He’s running in circles.

“I – I don’t know what you want me to say,” he blurts. It sounds desperate even to his ears and he knows it’s pathetic, to put the burden on John and force him to decide what Alex should do. “What do you want from me?”

John goes oddly still, mouth slightly ajar and eyes shining as he stares at something only he can see. His hand jerks forward, as if pulled by a string, and lands unmoving on Alex’s cheek. He doesn’t stroke it. Instead the hot pads of his fingers rest dryly against Alex’s skin. His mouth moves slightly, answering some invisible question.

Alex is frozen. He’s not sure what John is probing for, but he knows he’ll spoil the moment if he moves. This otherworldly figure is not the pissed man of just a few seconds ago. This is a lost man, in search of salvation.

With a click, John’s mouth snaps shut. He swallows thickly, like he’s on the verge of throwing up. His color is gone. It drained out with his anger, leaving a pale ghost in its wake.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush, eyes wide and upset.

“Wait-” Alex calls, but John is gone and the bedroom door slams shut before he can reach out. His hand hovers in the arm, grasping at a passed moment.

\--

_“Please,” John sobbed, tears and snot thick on his ruddy face. “I don’t know what you want me to say!” The hand comes down hard across his cheek. His teeth jostle together and his cheeks resound with the tingling pain. He’ll do anything. Anything to make the pain stop. Anything to get the chain off his ankle. The figure looms above him, unforgiving. This is the punisher, here to show John all of his shortcomings and wrongdoings. To show his inadequacy. The punisher doesn’t speak. His iron fists squeeze John’s neck until his life begins to slip out and the blackness encroaches. He steps back, unsatisfied. More punishment will come because John can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do. He screams out as the stairs creak and the light flicks off. “What do you want from me?”_

John blinks, bringing his own reflection into focus. He doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror. That person is messy. Their skin is splotchy, alternating between ghostly white and blazing red and their eyes are spooked and twitchy. They look feral with fear, like one good scare would do them in. Their hair is cropped unevenly, too close to the skull. It falls in dull strands, two inches long at the longest.

John isn’t like that. He’s strong. He’s survived the very worst.

He’s a good boy.

_You’re my good boy. Oh yes you are._

His knuckles begin to ache from his vicious grip on the edge of the sink. The faux marble cuts into the underside of his thumb and his nails are purplish red from the pressure.

He’s being an idiot. Worse, he’s being a jerk. It’s not Alex’s fault. Maybe in some of his darkest, loneliest moments, he’d lashed out, desperate to put the blame somewhere so he didn’t feel quite so shitty, but by the time the morning rolled around, he always sent out a mental apology. It was hope, not for himself, but for Alex that sustained him through some of the worst moments, when the shame was almost too much.

Hope for Alex’s safety. Hope for Alex’s happiness. At least John was alone. At least it wasn’t Alex here, made to bow his proud head and play doting wife and willing pet.

It’s hard to see this Alex. This hollowed shell of the man Alex once was. The guilt is a thick knot in his own stomach. Guilt at abandoning Alex, at destroying him through his absence. Guilt for blaming him, even for a second, and guilt for taking the tiniest lick of satisfaction at Alex’s misery. It isn’t fair, John can see that. He’s mad at Alex for being okay and he’s mad at him for not being okay. He’s mad that Alex was so miserable when John didn’t have the option to be happy. He’s mad that Alex moved on while John languished in hell. He can’t have it both ways, but he can’t stop the twin dogs of rage that tug on him constantly.

His fingers stray to the marks on his neck of their own accord. It’s ugly. He can see the way Alex’s eyes flick to it every time he looks at John. But they jerk away just as fast, like’s he’s caught sight of something unsightly. John doesn’t know how to tell Alex that these little smudges of pain on his skin aren’t the hard part. He doesn’t know how to give shape to the way _He_ would smile at John like something special or the cruel way his words always seeped in deeper than John wanted to let him. There’s no sentence that can describe the sticky residue of shame along his skin when he found his body curling into _His_ touch or the that thorny rose of pride and shame in his chest when _He_ would beam when John went a little above and beyond in his daily tasks. It’s not the pain. It’s not the straightforward moments when John misbehaved that muddle his thoughts and taint his existence. It’s the moments of pleasure and it’s the way _his_ words echoed in John’s head even when he was alone. Towards the end, there were no punishments. The choking was sexual, and John found he didn’t always mind that head rush that blurred out his senses. It’s called the good kids high for a reason. No, there weren’t any punishments because a pout was enough to flood John’s heart with disappointment at himself.

“No, I understand. I can’t expect you to care about me,” _He’d_ say sorrowfully, dragging his feet as he walked away from whatever task John had left unfinished.

John’s words always poured out in a rush. “No, I’m sorry, I’ll do better,” he’d promise. He doesn’t want to be alone in the basement. Even if he has to sit on the floor like an obedient dog, it’s better than the chilly isolation of the basement. “Please, I’m good.”

It’s those words, _John’s words_ , that choke his throat more than any bruise could.

Even with the bathroom door open, the bedroom is too small. The air is clogged with tension, too thick for John to breathe. Alex hasn’t come knocking, but John can’t go out there. His words pollute the air, tainting their once loving space with anger and sorrow. He wants to pluck them out of the air and cram that back down into the recesses of his mind, where no one will ever see his retched thoughts. But he can’t take them back. Alex is out there know, breathing them in and rolling them over his tongue. John can’t face it. He needs to breathe clean air.

He snatches a phone off the bedside table and jostles the window open. He glances at the closed door. How long will Alex wait? When will his worry draw him to the door like a kicked dog to the food bowl? How long will he passively accept John’s supposed silence? He doesn’t want Alex to worry. Truly he doesn’t. But _he can’t breathe._

The sound of his feet slapping onto the fire escape is a shot through the air and he freezes briefly. He waits one beat, two beats before concluding the door isn’t going to open. He jogs down the stairs, jumping the last few feet onto the dumpster so he doesn’t have to unhook the last section, which is kept elevated so that strangers can’t use it as a way to break in. He rolls to the ground with ease. His knobby joints protest, but his muscles flicker in remembrance of a time when he was active. When he ran and swam and thrived in his youthful body. This sickly body is not his. He’s somewhere inside, waiting to emerge.

It’s not as if he ate poorly these last few months. It’s that his daily allotment was half of what he was used to. It’s that he never left the house so his muscles atrophied.

It took a month for him to be let off the chain. He emerged into the first floor, blinking like a newborn deer and stumbling like one too. Windows. Sunlight. Everything was locked from the outside. There were no phones, no computers to call for help. The fridge was unlocked, but John learned early on that anything more than a swallow of milk would be noticed.

And punished.

For a while, he occupied his time during the day by working out. Push-ups, sit-ups, the usual fare. But he found that his body ached more easily and his wasted precious energy burning muscle and fat he couldn’t afford to lose.

So he cooked and cleaned. He doted appropriately and offered up his body willingly whenever He demanded it.

The park is spacious enough that his memories float away on the wind. Kneeling, John runs his fingers through the grass. It’s not as soft as he remembers. The edges are sharp and specks of dirt interrupt the graceful curve of the blade. He digs little troughs with his fingers. The gritty feel of dirt under his fingernails is satisfying. It’s real and natural. There’s no human-made surface that compares to the moldable resistance of dirt. No firm couch leather or ironed bed sheets could feel like this. No hard porcelain or laminate tile would yield to his fingers like this.

He shifts so he’s in a sprinter’s crouch.

_1-_

_Breathe._

_2-_

_Breathe._

_3-_

_Go._

He’s off like a shot. It’s uncoordinated, especially compared to his once elegant form. For a moment, the wind whistles in his ear and streaks through his poorly cut hair. But after only a hundred feet or so his legs tremble beneath him and already his lungs ache. His vision swims and he careens to one side, landing painfully on his elbow. Air heaves in and out of his chest harshly as he lays there. His body is weak. His body is a traitor. John’s free now, but his body is still a cage.

Lying on his back he pounds his fists weakly against the ground. It’s not much of a park, just a brief bit of grass and trees on the bike path that winds around town. There’s no play structures and hardly any benches. The bike path itself is a good ways away, so there’s no one around to watch him fall apart.

It’s early in the afternoon, maybe one or two, but the sky is overcast above. It’s just as moody as John, full of unmoving clouds of grey. Don’t even try to look, there’s no sun here. Just murky unhappiness.

His mind shifts to the diminutive, reedy form of Luke. Of the three boys, Luke was John’s favorite. He was like Alex in ways. His nose would wrinkle in distaste whenever they were given food he didn’t like even as they lived desperately from one meal to the next. His displeasure was stated loudly whenever the gag came off his mouth. It was a little funny, even though it shouldn’t have been. It’s exactly how Alex would be if he were kidnapped – intentionally impudent while dryly criticizing their kidnapper’s techniques. 

Luke didn’t last long, though. His impertinent mouth and his stubborn refusal to be subservient sealed his fate after only three weeks.

The other two lasted almost two months each. John’s predecessor had supposedly lasted about that long as well. It was always same, _He_ had told him. First obedience out of fear. But eventually that gave way to petulance, and eventually, outright refusal. Fighting back was a losing game.

Even if _He_ is caught, John doubts he’ll ever reveal the whole truth. There’s four bodies in the backyard – well, there were when John left – the one that came before John and the three that appeared while he was there. But there weren’t four murders.

Number four, Cody – sweet, quiet Cody – didn’t fight back much. And it was John who found his body swinging grotesquely from the basement rafters, his face purple and swollen.

 _He_ used to say John was special as he ran his fingers tenderly through John’s hair. John hadn’t earned the couch that night, so he sat on the carpet with his back between _his_ legs against the bottom of the couch. _He_ always got a little odd after the loss of a boy. Cody was special too. Gentle, even in the face of violence and humiliation. John was the only one who could walk that fine line between submission and spirit. If they become too passive, they become Codys. If they rebel too much, they have to be put down, the Lukes and Adams. The one before John was that way too. He was too fierce, even from the beginning. John never learned his whole name. But John could submit quietly. He could be trusted to tend to the house freely during the day. But that spark never left his eyes, or so _He_ said.

In reality, it was probably his patience from dealing with Alex’s spontaneous moments of blazing inspiration, full of incoherent sentences flowing quickly, nipping at the heels of each other, that tempered John. He waited. He endured. Eventually there would be a mistake. It was only a matter of staying alive to see it. And sure enough, ten months and twenty-seven days after leaving campus, John watched as the lock on the garage door failed to engage fully as _He_ left for work. A granola bar wrapper had fallen out of his back pocket and blocked the door from closing all the way. The lock was automatic, accessible only with an electronic pass key.

John stood, staring at the door for almost an hour. What if it was a trick? What if it was a test of his loyalty? But, he thought as he moved forward in jerky bursts, how could he not try? He’d say it was an accident. He’d say he was checking if the door was closed all the way because he was worried about someone breaking in. _He_ would believe John because John was a good boy.

But there was no one in the garage and the door opened agreeably when John pushed the button on the wall. The street was nothing special. It looked like any other suburban street in small town America. He walked calmly to a neighbors, where he knocked and asked politely to use the phone. She was an older woman, whose banal smile never left her face and she disappeared and returned with the handset. Smart woman, not to let him in. He called 911 and asked if he could wait on her porch until the police arrived.

“Of course, young man,” she said with a pleasant nod. She offered him some grapefruit juice, which he declined, and closed the door gently behind her.

And then five days later, here he is. Laying in a park, free to stay or go or sing or cry or do whatever he wants.

It’s surreal. But so was being gone, like maybe _this_ is the day he’ll wake up and find it’s all been a bad dream. Or _this_ day. How about _this_ one? And now he is back, but the bony protrusions of his joints and the circle of discolored bruises along his neck remind him that this was no nightmare.

John all but launches off the grass as the phone in his back pocket begins to vibrate. He rips the device out and glares at it for scaring him so. It’s a stupid little thing, but his heart is racing and his eyes have already filled with tears.

It takes him a moment of staring curiously at the screen to realize this isn’t his phone. Of course it’s not his phone. He doesn’t have a phone and even if he did, the bill hasn’t been paid in eons. This is Alex’s phone, a realization that is confirmed by the flashing name on the screen.

_Lafayette._

Alex’s mysterious not-boyfriend. John’s replacement. Truly he’s happy that Alex found someone, that he wasn’t alone. But that was an easy hope to have when John was pretty sure he’d live out the rest of his days as some sort of domestic sex slave. It’s another thing entirely to know this person is real and tangible. John’s isn’t needed, he doesn’t have a place in Alex’s home anymore. That apartment is practically empty. It’s unloved and unlived in. Alex’s real home is with this man, this Lafayette. Alex and John are both fooling themselves if they believe anything else. While John was in hell, the world continued to turn. He can’t expect everything to fall into place as if the past eleven months haven’t happened.

Out of some spiteful need for self-punishment John answers. He doesn’t offer a greeting though, just lets the line hang open.

_“John?”_

A Frenchman. Well done, Alex. Even in that hesitant tone, John’s name is silky on his tongue.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asks gruffly. This is all wrong. This is not how the two halves of Alex’s life should collide. Polite greetings, hand shake introductions. Maybe some wine.

Definitely some wine.

The man chuckles lightly. “Because, _mon ami,_ Alexander is in my living room as we speak, panicking and pacing like an unhappy little tiger.”

Ah yes. He can hear it now, the faint sounds of rapid fire ranting in the background. He pulls the phone away from his ear. It’s nearly four-thirty. No wonder Alex is so worked up. More guilt at this point is like a sprinkle of dirt on a mountain, but he feels the addition nonetheless. How is it humanly possible to fuck up this much?

He scrubs a tired hand over his face. It’s that same constricting feeling that forced him out the window in the first place.

“Right. Tell Alex I’m sorry.”

“ _You should tell him yourself_ ,” Lafayette counters and John can hear him faintly calling Alex to the phone.

“No, please, I can’t-”

“ _John?”_ It’s much more breathless and urgent than Lafayette’s greeting. Fuck. “ _Thank god! Where are you? Are you okay? I didn’t know if I should call the police and…”_ His voice rambles on but John stops listening as he buries his head in his knees. It didn’t even dawn on him that Alex might think he’d been re-kidnapped. How dense can he be? His stubby finger nails dig into his shins, painful even through his pants (Jesus, he’s not even wearing real pants, he’s still wearing flannel pajamas, he probably looks psychotic). Only when his arms begin to shake from exertion and Alex’s tinny voice calling his name gets loud enough that John can hear it even with the speaker on the ground does he scoop the device back up.

“I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later.”

He hangs up like the monster he is.

He can’t sit any longer with the agonizingly heavy weight in his chest, but he can’t run and he can’t go home so instead he gets up and he starts walking. He’s wearing a sweatshirt at least and his flannels have the school name down the side of them, so he at least looks more like a lazy college student than a genuine lunatic.

He starts on the bike path and follows it out of the park and through the commercial district. The path runs behind the shops, set back enough to feel like its own little road. Alex calls back immediately, repeatedly, but he doesn’t answer. Alex’s password hasn’t changed – John will have to remind him to get on that – so it’s not difficult to switch the ringer to mute.

How he’ll ever face Alex again he doesn’t know. Why bother even? The thought of losing Alex is like swallowing broken glass, each second worse than the last. But he’s already lost him, hasn’t he? It’s too late. Too messy. Before John returned, Alex was happy. Alex _is_ happy. He’d been prepared to live a life without John. It’s not fair to him, and certainly not fair to Lafayette, to ask him to abandon that path to chase ghosts of the past. John’s not even sure he’s capable of a relationship again, maybe not ever. That’s without touching the whole sex issue. Years maybe before John can share that level of intimacy with someone without feeling fear and repulsion. He can’t ask that of Alex, not when he’s got a perfectly lovely man willing and ready.

The only reason to go back, to see Alex, is for John’s sake. Because he can’t move on. Because he wants to pretend nothing ever happened.

He meant what he said back at the hospital. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go and he won’t be able to hold down a job for a little while. So maybe Alex wouldn’t mind footing him the rent for a little bit? At least until John can pay him back. Until then, John will live in their ghostly apartment and Alex can live with Lafayette and they can move forward regardless of whether or not John can. It hasn’t escaped John’s notice that none of his things have moved even an inch, all while Alex’s stuff has vacated the premises. It’s a perfect time capsule of the moment their lives broke into irreparably jagged pieces.

He moves out of the commercial district and the path takes him along a small river behind a residential development just as the first streaks of pink and orange spear through the grey. It’s a muted sunset, but the beauty refuses to be stifled completely by the maudlin clouds.

The babble of the rushing water is gentle against his ears. It’s tumultuous, but in a soothing way. It smells dirty in that natural way, like a recently uprooted vegetable. The good kind of dirty, uninfected by human intervention. John’s here, alive to smell it. He’s upright with all five senses and all four limbs intact. Moving a little slowly maybe, but he’s leaps and bounds better than he could be. He wounds are superficial, the uneven bruising, the small scratches along the inside of his thighs.

What right does he have to be here? What had he done to deserve salvation? There are four boys, all younger than him, who died slow and painfully all while John was spared. Whywhywhywhy?

With a growl he lashes out, punching feebly at nothing. His arm shakes in a way that’s unfamiliar, like even fighting an invisible enemy is too much. Briefly, he longs for a punching bag. He used to have a good go of it at the gym, bandaged knuckles going hard and consistent. But what would be the point? John doubts he could hit it more than a few times.

In fact, even walking is beginning to feel exhausting. The dietician at the hospital said something about that, how his energy would drain quickly due to malnutrition. Don’t go where you can’t get home quickly, she’d advised primly. You’ll feel fine one minute and exhausted the next. It’s not just about having less energy, it’s about how suddenly it will leave you. He sure feels it now, like his energy seeped out of a small leak somewhere in his body and he’s been unknowingly leaving it further behind with every step.

He glances around for a bench and, finding none, sits on the low guard rail between the bike path and the river. You know, just in case any drunk bikers went careening off. Gotta guard that shit.

His hands dangle limply in between his knees and he scuffs out a divot with the toe of his shoe. This is dumb, he thinks. He has no idea where he is, but with the sun all but gone below the horizon and the river at his back, he’ll be eaten to death by mosquitos shortly. This was stupid. How’s he going to get back?

The phone sits heavily in his hand. He’s sorry he made Alex worry. He’s sorry he wandered off. He’s sorry about everything. He’s sorry he’s alive. He’s sorry he didn’t die and leave Alex to live his happy little life with Lafayette. There aren’t enough words in the dictionary nor time on the clock for him to spell out just how sorry he is. Things can’t be changed. Alex won’t be happy about his plan, he knows that too, but John will make him see. The easiest way forward is for them to go their separate paths. Maybe they can still be friends. God knows John doesn’t have very many and he’s far from being capable of seeking out new attachments. He certainly can’t be anyone’s boyfriend.

He needs to get this over with.

On his old phone, John would typically call people by opening the messages app and clicking on that little phone icon. He didn’t typically use the contacts function. But he stops his finger just before it clicks on that little blue message bubble. He could do it. He could snoop through some of these supposed love birds’ messages. Just a bit. Did Alex still send rambling word jumbles full of typos because he moved too fast to reread his thoughts? Lafayette sounded like the sort of person to send heart emojis. He probably sent grammatically correct, perfectly punctuated sentiments.

But then he thinks of the plan. How he’s supposed to be moving on, cutting Alex loose. He’s only torturing himself. It’s crossing a line he’s never before crossed and he’s already so low. He’s made so many mistakes in the precious few hours he’s been back. It’s time for a little intentionality.

He thumbs through Alex’s contacts – nothing tells John how desperate Alex was like seeing Henry Laurens’ phone number in that list – and clicks on Lafayette.

The line connects immediately.

“ _John?!”_

“I’m fine, Alex.”

There’s rustling in the background, the jingle of keys and the squeaky protests of shoes being put on without being unlaced. “Where are you? I’m on my way.”

“I’m…not sure where I am.” He glances around, but nothing sticks out distinctly. “Hang on, let me find a street sign.”

Alex is speaking rapidly to someone in the background. Rustling and then, “John? It’s Lafayette.” His first thought is _put Alex back on the phone right now._ And then it’s _don’t ever make me talk to Alex again what could I ever say to make this right?_

“I’m thinking Alexander shouldn’t drive in this state. Would it be alright if I drove him to pick you up? I would also suggest you both spend the night here. I have a guest room you’re welcome to use of course.”

Jeez this guy is bossy.

But John can hear between the words. I suggest you both stay here. I’m worried about Alex and the effect you’re having on him. I want to be there to protect him from you.

It’s not unfair, even as it lands like a blow to the gut. Alex is the sort to work himself to death. He’d gladly worry himself into an early grave for John’s sake.

He tries to summon the image. Lafayette’s driving, Alex in the passenger seat like a happy wife, John in the back like the stubborn child who won’t listen.

No. Just…no.

“Can you just come get me? I mean, just you.”

The surprise is tangible through the device. “But Alex-”

“Not Alex, just you.” At least then he won’t be bombarded by questions while trapped in a small, moving space. He can act mulish and not feel guilty. He can ignore the polite queries because he doesn’t care if he hurts Lafayette’s feelings. He just doesn’t.

“I suppose, if that’s what you would like,” he replies slowly. John doesn’t envy Lafayette having to tell Alex he’s been sidelined.

“Please. I’m at the corner of Hickory and Elm. Tell Alex I’m sorry.”

He ends the call quickly and shoves the phone in his pocket where he can’t see if Alex calls back in a fury. He just wants to drag his aching body and exhausted mind into bed, where he doesn’t have to think about hurting other people’s feelings or feeling guilty just for fucking existing.

Lafayette’s car is a sleek, midsize sedan in a royal looking maroon color. John knows he cuts a sorry form in the greyish evening light. He’s sitting on the curb, knees awkwardly folded up, with his wobbly fingers breaking apart an unfortunate leaf. It was already dead though, so…you know, not John’s fault.

He feels like scum, like actual scum scrapped from the bottom of a pool, as he climbs into the pristine leather interior.

 “Nice car,” he offers flatly as he drops tentatively into the passenger seat. Is there any street debris on the seat of his pants from the sidewalk? Or, oh God, he was lying in the grass. He should have brushed himself off before getting in but it’s too late now. Now he looks inconsiderate on top of every shitty thing Lafayette must be thinking about him.

“Thank you,” the man offers primly. Out of the corner of his eye, John can see the outline of delicate features and a large poof of well-maintained hair. He’s wearing a light leather jacket. Expensive too, maybe even real leather. How the hell did Alex ever meet this guy? What could they possibly have in common to talk about?

If nothing else, Lafayette is true to his world. There’s a conspicuous Alex-shaped hole in the tense car. Even though it probably took an inordinate amount of effort to get Alex to stay behind, Lafayette managed it. All because John, someone he doesn’t even know, asked him to.

It’s just as John begins to settle in with the comforting realization that maybe he won’t have to say a single word the whole ride that Lafayette tentatively pokes their mutual silence. “Alexander missed you very much.”

“So he’s said.” John watches the passing street lights as they drive. They’re just starting to turn on and a few flicker with the effort of it. He used to like the area at night. It’s a relatively safe place.

Well.

Relatively speaking.

For the 99% of the population that had never and would never be kidnapped, it was safe.

Lafayette tries again, either unaware or uncaring about the explosive mess of emotions that is John. His restraint is paper-thin and Lafayette seems like the sharing caring sort. It’d be a pity to yell at him. He looks rather like a cute puppy, just wanting everyone to be happy. “I want you to know…our relationship, that is, Alexander and myself…it has not been easy. He did not, uh…fly at me with open arms.”

“S’long as you guys are happy, doesn’t really matter how it started, does it?” He’s being a jerk, but it’s nothing compared to what he could say.

“He loves you, John Laurens. Doesn’t that matter?”

No.

Yes.

Can’t you see you’re torturing me?

Why don’t they understand a clean break will be easier?

Instead, he holds his barbarous tongue and traces a finger along the cool glass. “Not to you, it shouldn’t.”

\--

The way Alex’s face shudders closed when John steps through the door behind Lafayette is worse than any of the hundreds of torments his body has suffered in the last year. Alex pulls on a feeble smile as he offers John a cup of hot chocolate and absent-mindedly brushes some grass from his sweatshirt.

“Are you alright? I was worried.”

This soft-spoken shade fliting around is nothing like the hysterical person on the phone. His eyes are red-rimmed, but John can tell he scrubbed his face in an attempt to hide the evidence.

It wasn’t a rejection, he wants to say. Instead he clears his throat and says, “I’m…uh, sorry. About, you know, asking him to-”

“It’s fine, don’t sweat it.” Alex is still twittering around him, cleaning his sweater. Lafayette has disappeared somewhere in the admittedly vast expanses of the duplex. It’s not unreasonably large by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s larger than anything John would have been able to afford for many years to come.

“It’s not fine. I just don’t have the energy to have this conversation right now. Tomorrow, we can talk. I promise. Just…not now.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want.”

He wishes they’d stop saying that, like John will throw a tantrum if he can’t have it his way. He is an adult. He knows how to share and how to compromise and how to deal with not getting what he wants. He’s not going to break.

Maybe he is. Oh well.

“The guest room is just down there, last door. The bathroom is across the hallway. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. I-”

His eyes cut to John sharply and his arm, gesticulating as usual, freezes in the air. John saves him from the mental breakdown.

“It’s fine, Alex. If you normally sleep in Lafayette’s bed, sleep in his bed. Honestly, that’s probably for the best right now. I just need to crash.”

Alex nods slowly, like John has just asked him to sleep in the basement instead of on some luxury bed besides a ridiculously attractive Frenchmen. Even when he’s trying to do the right thing, he hurts those around him.

“Are you sure, because I’m sure Laf wouldn’t-”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in, voice steely. Laf. A nickname. A _pet_ name. It’s like someone has reached in his stomach and scooped everything out. He’s hollow. He’s weak, buffeted this way and that by the bitter wind. He doesn’t even have enough substance left to be called human. “I’m just going to head to bed.”

That snaps Alex out of his hesitancy. Alex latches onto his new cause relentlessly, dull eyes revived and shoulders set in that stubborn way of his. “You haven’t even had dinner!” He frowns. A year ago, it would have been cute, that little pout Alex makes when he’s remembering something unsatisfactory. “Or lunch…or breakfast really.”

“It’s fine, Alex, really.” He tries to turn, to slip down the hall away from Alex’s dogged protests and stubborn love. Just make it stop, he thinks tiredly. The world has turned this long without him, can’t it make it one more night? Doesn’t he deserve that much? After everything doesn’t he deserve one fucking night of peace so he can burrow under the covers and exist quietly in the dark? Hasn’t he paid enough for such a simple request?

“Hang on, John. Seriously, you need to eat. The dietician said-”

“Fucking stop, Alex!” Whoops. There he goes again, stabbing at Alex’s outreached hand, putting that pitiful look on his face. “I’m not eating dinner with you two lovebirds at his table like we’re all just the best of pals. I don’t think one goddamn night is too much to ask.”

The slam of the door echoes with finality behind him. The lock snicks into place like a hiss.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

John is a horrible, shit-for-brains person. He’s the type of person that screams at people who just want to help, the people who care. Hurting Alex is the last thing he wants. It makes him hurt too, but apparently that’s not enough to stop him.

Why is this so fucking hard? Fucking living is hard. Breathing is hard. Having one simple conversation is hard.

Hell, even crying is too hard. His eyes are painfully dry. They itch like they want to summon the tears, but John’s all cried out. He’s cried a million tears over the last year and he doesn’t have any left. It’s just him and this ridiculously well-decorated room and his dry eyes.

He wants to go back and slam the door again and again until it splinters to pieces in his hands, but the thought of the way Alex’s miserable face will pick up with anticipation when he sees the door opening – it’s enough to stop John. Instead he rips a pillow, taupe to match the mauve bedspread, from its artfully angled position and beats the thing senseless against the edge of the bed. Animalistic grunts burst painfully from his throat as he thrashes the thing and some part of him notes that he probably sounds like a madman from outside the room. That’s too bad though, because John is done playing nice. He only hurts those who try to help. It’s time they heard the true extent of his ugly brokenness. The rainbows and sunshine are over. It’s time for lightning, for pain. This is what it’s like to be in John’s head, these aggressive half-screams and senseless violence. To feel abused and angry. To want someone else to feel your pain, to want to surrender and die.

It’s a crescendo in his mind, these viciously clashing thoughts and needle-sharp hurts. There’s a whole pile of them, old and new hurts alike. The tower is too big and it’s falling over, raining down little pin-pricks of agony.

The expensive fabric gives free under his fingers and goose feathers, downy and white, explode into the air. His momentum takes him forward, where he tumbles into the bed and onto the floor. His chest is heaving so much he feels like he might throw up.

Someone is pounding on the door. Someone is calling his name. He ignores both.

He holds the tattered remains of the pillow up to his face. Jesus. Is he a fucking caveman? Invited into some rich stranger’s house only to rip the pillows literally to pieces like some feral raccoon?

“Sorry, I’m fine,” he calls because Alex will never go away if he doesn’t. Rapid fire questions hammer at the door but John has no answers left to give. His arms shake as he pulls himself over the edge of the bed and they give away the second he gets his whole body on top. It’s his new mantra. I’m sorry. I’m fine. I’m sorry. I’m fine. Lies all over the place. The mattress gently shifts under him. Expensive. Memory foam or some shit. The absolute lap of luxury. Light years away from the thin, springy thing in the basement that John had called his bed for eleven months. Who would have ever thought he’d be here?

No one. No one thought he’d be here because they all thought he was nothing more than a decomposing corpse by now.

Maybe it would have been better that way.

\--

John blinks awake with a gasp. The overhead lamp is still on, bathing the room in a soft yellow, but outside there’s only blackness. Any passerby could probably see the room in full detail if they cared to look.

The tips of his fingers rub at his eyes with harsh, punishing movements. This can’t go on forever. Eventually Alex will refuse to be stopped by a closed door. Eventually John will have to spill some words out into the audible world. He can’t stay forever wrapped up in his own thoughts, in a torturous cocoon of his own making.

It’s only as his sore feet sink into the thick, squishy carpet that John realizes he’s only been wearing a pair of thick socks this entire time. No shoes, just wooly socks, for the entirety of his journey. It’s a down right miracle he didn’t step on some glass or dog poop or ejected gum. It’d be just like the universe to give him a few swift kicks while he’s already writhing on the ground in misery. Curving a finger along his heel, John peels the offending objects off his feet. They small bad and they’re mysteriously damp in a few spots. He dumps them in the trash before realizing he has literally no other socks here. He doesn’t even know where here is. They could be in the middle of a sock-free district for all he knows. He frowns as he contemplates the black lumps of fabric in the trash. They look like a dog dragged them around for a good while before a hurricane took them on a multi-mile journey with swirling, high-velocity, dirt-ridden winds, only to drop them in an exposed landfill. Maybe John fell asleep somewhere on his walk and a man came to steal his socks and replaced them with a pair he found in the street.

Maybe sockless isn’t so bad. The carpet squishes pleasantly under his crunching toes. It’s just like the dirt, yielding pliantly to his demands. It’s nice. Textured without being rough. He has the inane urge to roll around like a cat, to feel the softness over his entire body.

Instead he steadies himself with a deep breath. His fingers are cold to the point of being stiff as he grabs the knob. The lock releases automatically as he turns it. The sound is loud to his ears. Did Alex hear it? Is he perked up on the couch trying to figure out if he really heard what he thought he did, like a dog eagerly awaiting its master’s return?

It’s not unlike that moment just a few days ago, when he stood in that hallway, staring at the not quite engaged lock. He’s not sure what’s on the other side. He’s not sure if he wants to risk going out there. The precipice between the known and the unknown is steep.

But. He’s not in that house anymore. There’s no one on the other side who will kill him if they find him leaving. He’ll tell Alex he’s hungry. That will certainly please him. In fact, John finds it’s not entirely untrue. He is hungry, almost achingly so.

The hallway is dark. It too is carpeted and John feels like a ghost. Even he can’t be sure if he’s really here. A door down the hallway, across from the top of the stairs, is cracked and a gentle light spills out. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame. He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. He should just slip silently down the stairs and find something to eat. He doesn’t want to talk, so why go searching for others?

It’s not a passive-aggressive interrogation that awaits him though. John presses against the wall to get a view in through the narrow gap. Closed for privacy, but cracked so that John knew where to go if he needed help. A gesture to make him feel welcome.

The sight that greets him makes him feel anything but. Alex is curled small on the bed, his back to the doorway. The sound of crying is muffled, but audible. John traces the curve Alex’s spine through thin fabric, starting from the peak of skin between his waist band and shirt hem. At the top of the curve he finds shaking shoulders. His silky hair is swept up in a little pony tail and the ends quiver anxiously as Alex shakes. And over his bowed head…

He pulls back sharply, hand flying to his mouth to stifle his breathing like he’s a robber. Eyes, dark in the lowlight, stared at him over Alex’s quaking shoulder. Where John once would have been, wrapped tight around Alex just to make sure he knows how much he’s loved, it’s now Lafayette. They blend well together, their curves and angles a perfect counterpoint.

Nearly holding his breath, he shifts his weight forward. Lafayette meets his gaze squarely, even while Alex cries into his shirt, unaware of the unspoken conversation happening around him.

 _You did this_ , those eyes say. Or maybe they don’t. That’s what John’s eyes would say if their positions were reversed, but maybe Lafayette is a better person than him. In fact, if their positions were reversed, John doubts he could open his home to his boyfriend’s ex-lover. He wouldn’t let this ghost worm it’s way between them. He’d be possessive and petty. He was yours, but he’s mine now. Stop living in the past, he’d tell himself.

Lafayette is most definitely a better person than John.

 _I’m sorry_ , John’s eyes say. He hopes Lafayette receives the message. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Lafayette’s eyes seem to soften. He looks like the sort of person who volunteers at animal shelters and puts ‘good listener’ on dating profiles. Probably eats kale too. Maybe Alex has found the one person in the world who doesn’t hate John for surviving, even as John continually resents himself for that very same thing. Maybe he and Lafayette are actually on the same page. They both want what’s best for Alex and they both know it isn’t John. Maybe Lafayette can be his ally in helping Alex move on.

Lafayette shifts his head just so. Alex readjusts fluidly, like he’s been held in these arms a thousand times. He doesn’t hear the silent conversation, but John perceives the invitation. He’s allowed to join them. They can have a tender, late night conversation on the bed like three little boys at a sleep over. Lafayette will move over and give this dead memory a space on his own bed.

This is the sort of person Alex deserves. Kind and patient. Not angry and bitter. Lafayette not John.

He steps back into the darkness, severing his view of Lafayette.

It hurts. God does it hurt. It’s like peeling back the layers of skin and muscle to grip his own beating heart. He rips it free even as it spasms, desperate to keep him alive by any means necessary. But this isn’t about John’s survival anymore. This is about two people who love each other, who deserve each other. Destroying his own heart is a small price to pay for Alex’s happiness.

He glides down the stairs like a specter. He’s not really here anyway. He’s just a memory, here to destroy everything real and good.

Lafayette has the sort of kitchen that has multiple light switches. There’s small lights set into the ceiling, but also a light over the sink and a small rail of lights along the underside of the cabinets. The first switch turns on the latter and that’s good enough, so John moves in the semi-darkness. He doesn’t want it too bright. Ghosts don’t exist in the light, he’ll fade out of being if it’s too illuminated. Dirty things like him, they scurry and hide in the dark recesses of life.

The counter is relatively pristine, though a half-eaten bag of Fritos lying haphazardly close to the edge tells John that Alex does, in fact, live here and that his tastes haven’t deviated too much as he climbed the economic ranks. There’s a crystal bowl, complete with an ornately shaped lid, full of individually wrapped strawberry candies on the counter. It’s the sort of thing you put out for company and then maybe never put away but also never eat. His mom had something like it, full of striped peppermints. His father had whacked John sternly across the back of his hand when he’d caught John sneaking one late at night. He didn’t understand then, why put out food if you can’t eat it? Why could people who didn’t even live there eat it?

He unwraps it neatly, smoothing out the square wrapper. It’s designed to look like a strawberry, with the top bit green while the bottom is red with yellow specks. It’s the sort of cheap candy you see in stores or restaurants. Maybe even in the office of an ironic doctor or dentist. Once upon a time he would have ripped that little piece of shiny paper off carelessly. He’d tear it up or wad it into a ball and lob it towards the basket. But now he presses out each wrinkle before folding it carefully into quarters.

The sweetness melts across his tongue. He has to close his eyes. It’s the sweetest thing he’s had in so long. It’s almost too much. The hard shell dissolves agonizingly slow, warping to his tongue and becoming shiny as the outer coating is washed away. His spit tastes like summer when it drips down his throat. He pokes the little candy into place with his tongue and then…crunch! The sharp outer layer explodes across his mouth and the sticky middle seeps out in all its gooey goodness. The bits of shell mold to his teeth in a way that will definitely require a toothpick while the rest sits heavily on his tongue.

His hand sneaks out and grabs another one. It’s unwrapped quickly, shoved into his mouth before the other one is entirely gone. The wrapper gets the same treatment, but hurriedly this time. And then a third. They clack together in his mouth. He’s so hungry. He forgot the way sweets could perch on your tongue, a rush of rebellion chasing their sugary flavor.

“I’m glad they’re to your liking.”

With two marble-sized red candies still on his tongue, John looks up from his perfectly aligned stack of square strawberry wrappers to find Lafayette in the doorway. He’s wearing purple pajama pants, affixed at the waist with a grey tie in a limp bow. There’s no shirt to be found and John finds his eyes skirting around the well-sculpted muscle tone like it’s the sun itself. Can’t look at it directly or it’ll burn out your eyes. It feels like a violation to Alex. John’s not the sort to go eyeing up other people’s boyfriends, after all. Even in the dim lighting, he can make out the sharp grace he couldn’t see clearly in the car. Lafayette looks tired and his face is a little washed out, but John suspects that while John’s spent the last many nights staring listlessly at the hospital ceiling being driven slowly mad by heart monitors and nurses checking in on him, Lafayette has spent his nights absorbing Alex’s stress and trying to keep a sliver of sanity in this shit show.

John did that. To Lafayette, to Alex.

Even tired, Lafayette looks put together. His hair is pulled into a bun on the top of his head, but it still poofs slightly. His facial hair is well trimmed. He probably smells like exotic aftershave. He looks the sort for it. Even his nails, poking out on both sides of his crossed arms, are far neater and more trimmed than John’s ever were. Even his arm hair looks well-groomed, all going the same way on his strong forearms. Does that happen naturally? John’s hair is light on his arms, but it’s certainly never looked anything less than disheveled if you peered close enough to see it.

His mind’s eye turns to his own look. Still wearing the same pajamas he put on more than twenty-four hours ago. The same pajamas that took a tumble in the grass and an extended evening stroll. Even with a good brushing, his new haphazardly cropped locks look like Edward Scissorhands attacked him in his sleep. His eyes peer out of papery skin that stretches grotesquely over his cheeks. And, of course, there’s the necklace of bruises peeking out of his sweatshirt collar. Undoubtedly, he looks nothing short of rabid. Acted like it too.

“I’ll pay to replace the pillow,” he blurts, surprising them both.

“Don’t worry about it?” He moves fluidly about the kitchen, grabbing a glass from a cabinet and filling it with a pitcher from the fridge. “I told Alex I was getting water,” he offers as an explanation. “Would you like one?”

He stares at the pitcher. Alex is upstairs, probably still crying because John is a horrid, horrid person. He doesn’t know John’s awake. He doesn’t know John is talking to Lafayette. Would he be yelling if he knew? Or would it be that same dampened energy and desperation that floated around him like a cloud from before?

“No thanks,” he answers hollowly. He’s so out of place in this pristine kitchen. He feels it like a thousand eyes staring out at him from the woodwork. “I can leave,” he offers abruptly. “If you want.”

Lafayette pulls the pitcher towards himself defensively as if maybe it had offended John into leaving. “Why would I want this?”

There’s too many answer to why Lafayette should want that, so instead John just shrugs. Let Lafayette pick whatever reason he deems most suitable.

“You make Alexander happy, John Laurens. For no reason other than that you are always welcome in my home. He is…he is _seul,_ lonely, yes? Alexander has no family around-”

“I know that!” he snarls, unable to help himself. “I knew Alex for a long time,” he reminds harshly. _Longer than you_ , he doesn’t add, though he suspects Lafayette hears it loud and clear.

“Of course,” the Frenchman acquiesces easily. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

John swallows thickly. He feels like a barbarian, whipping out a glove left and right to challenge people to duels over nonsensical matters of honor. He brought a gun to a battle of wits.

“We find ourselves in a situation both complex and delicate. But, we are smart, yes? I’m sure we can figure out some sort of arrangement.”

“Arrangement,” he parrots weakly. “Right. Or I could just fuck off and make it easier on everyone.”

Lafayette sets down the water pitcher and runs his finger through the condensation that’s collected on the outside of Alex’s glass. “I doubt very much Alexander would find that an agreeable solution.”

“And what about you? What would you find agreeable?”

Lafayette doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes trace over John’s face like a long-distance caress. He feels vulnerable in its wake. Like a child caught sneaking sweets. He’s exposed for judgement, helpless to defend himself. Unwilling even if he was asked to. “I’ve heard a lot about you, John Laurens. I feel as if I’ve known you for a long time.”

“No,” he counters. “You don’t know me at all. You know the person I used to be. You know the person Alex remembers.” It’s not the same thing, no matter how much John hopes. No matter how hard Alex tries to make it so. Maybe he’s changed too irrevocably. Maybe he and Alex are strangers just as much as he and Lafayette are. He was too blind before. He only had his hope of returning to Alex to survive on. Realism couldn’t be expected of him then. But now he realizes that even as he played his long con, even as he bided his time for an escape, the home he longed to return to was slipping ever further away. He shouldn’t have been so sentimental. Maybe he should have asked the police not to call anyone and John could have walked out of the hospital a new man. John Laurens would stay dead and this new John could start a life fresh, where no one knew the torments he’d endured or the love he’d lost.

Lafayette’s quiet voice interrupts his spiraling thoughts. “Then we are starting in the same place, yes? I don’t know you and you don’t know me.” His voice is so gentle, like it’s of utmost importance that he doesn’t startle John. Maybe he speaks to everyone like that, always willing to extend the hand of kindness, always willing to give the benefit of the doubt.

Tears clog his sinuses immediately. It feels so foreign, this compassion. Lafayette gives it so freely, even to resurrected ghosts sullying his kitchen. There’s no debt owed, no return services expected. It’s not a reward. It’s a given.

John sees it. There’s so much to love about this strange man. In another universe John could have loved him.

Lafayette moves like a cat, quiet and graceful. The warm pad of his thumb isn’t dry or overly sweaty. It’s perfectly moisturized as it swipes the first tear off of John’s face. John’s mouth stretches, lips smashing unattractively. His voice is a baby bird trying to soar clear and free, but tumbling brokenly to the ground instead.

“I want to hate you.”

This man who is a thousand times better than John will ever be. This man who has stolen the heart of John’s only love. This man who is kind and beautiful and full of endless generosity.

John can’t hate him.

He can’t hate something so pure.

There’s a tiny smile sliding on to Lafayette’s face as he tilts his head. His thumb continues to stroke light circles along John’s face.

“You should hate me,” John chokes out. That equation makes more sense. John is nothing. John has ruined Lafayette’s perfect life. John’s a dog that won’t quit begging for scraps no matter how many times he’s kicked.

Lafayette doesn’t think on it for a minute. His hand curves to cup John’s cheek like he’s something precious. “Never, John Laurens. Never. There’s nothing but love in my heart.” On anyone else’s lips, it’d sound overly sentimental. But it slips from Lafayette’s lips like a butterfly from a cocoon. It’s better for its freedom, it’s meant to soar in the air.

He steps back and Lafayette’s hand drops limply to his side. It takes every inch of resilience he has to keep himself composed in the face of the confused hurt that overtakes those delicate features. “I think you should bring Alex his water,” he says flatly.

It’s a rejection, but he only says it because he will never be deserving of such love.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure if there's anyone left interested in this fanverse so if you're out there, please drop me a line to say so! They're very appreciated :D The next piece FINALLY has the good poly goodness and is already in process (comments are great motivation *wink wink*).
> 
> If you want to chat Hamilton or writing or literally anything at all, come say hi on tumblr at rose-of-tori! I'm a lonely computer addict, what can I say.


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